12

     smoking the cigarette of young despair
     before he could respond, and even though
     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.
     He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
     but this is only partly true. One could,
     content to jelly through the night and meld,
     secure enjoyment of their properties
     to use his Oriental residence
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.

     to see the closing of that early grave.
     The weather added what it could of gloom.
     I did not think such anguish possible.
     The way of doing what is done and done
     had died before it filtered down to me.
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     music, which in its very principle
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.

     behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
     Her head became a solitary cloud.
     But what about the fantasies she has!
     The smallest women had the roundest legs
     where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
     a series of metallic strips that twined
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     When women and their children work at home,
     off-white is just another word for gray.
     The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

When women and their children work at home,
the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
evidence of his sensuality
lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
I did not wish to live what was not life,
the myth of intersexuality
hidden by blatant circularity.
How curious a land this is, – how full
the letters of our alphabet, which are
the standard English of the living dead.

     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     the white man’s Christianity – which asked
     to see the closing of that early grave.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     affinity between the omniscient voice
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     is certainly suggested by the trees
     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
The very concept of the body is
serious work of beating back the past.
I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
to find out if a woman really loves
while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
her not with expectations but with doom.
Her head became a solitary cloud.
There’d be no candy for the kids that day.

Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
The smallest women had the roundest legs
which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
He found the creature cowering in the cage,
his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
He gave his head one violent shake as though
he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
the bloated back of something long demised.

     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     to attract some unimaginable moth
     so close to me that I could feel his breath
     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     because, though free, he was not formally
     smoking the cigarette of young despair
     so that compositors could use the same
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .

     a number is a number, true is true.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
     He found the creature cowering in the cage,
     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
     He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
     so close to me that I could feel his breath
     fill in from left to right until the space
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.

And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
Inside the silence of unmoving things,
you let him kick you out because you thought
“Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
how close I came to being so ensnared.
How curious a land this is, – how full
because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
They just don’t mind my taking you along.
That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.

     fill in from left to right until the space
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
     for I deny that you can ever force
     the white man’s Christianity—which asked
     a promise genuinely promising.
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     a series of metallic strips that twined
     serious work of beating back the past.

     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     He was a stationary traveler
     because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     so that compositors could use the same
     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     affinity between the omniscient voice
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     you let him kick you out because you thought
     a number is a number, true is true.

He was a stationary traveler
distinguishing the long-expected rap.
He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
Inside the silence of unmoving things,
what is not known is not seen as unknown.
The very concept of the body is
the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
a cup’s inscrutable banality.

The programs we have built so far have been
the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
the bloated back of something long demised.
The way of doing what is done and done
and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
will not have read the texts that we have read.
The air was full of baseball scores and bad
lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
They just don’t mind my taking you along.

     he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
     to find out if a woman really loves
     because, though free, he was not formally
     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     The kinship of this cognitive critique
     had died before it filtered down to me.
     But what about the fantasies she has!
     At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
     the myth of intersexuality
     distinguishing the long-expected rap.

The very concept of the body is
evidence of his sensuality
hidden by blatant circularity.
He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
He gave his head one violent shake as though
content to jelly through the night and meld,
I did not think such anguish possible.
I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

     of mind, because it is the death of death
     to use his Oriental residence
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.
     The kinship of this cognitive critique
     is certainly suggested by the trees
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here."
     That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.

     music, which in its very principle
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     for I deny that you can ever force
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     but this is only partly true. One could,
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
     his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
     before he could respond, and even though
     off-white is just another word for gray.

     what is not known is not seen as unknown.
     Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     her not with expectations but with doom.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
     He gave his head one violent shake as though
     the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
     how close I came to being so ensnared.
     The weather added what it could of gloom.
     There’d be no candy for the kids that day.

     a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     the standard English of the living dead.
     The kinship of this cognitive critique
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     He was a stationary traveler
     to find out if a woman really loves
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     a promise genuinely promising.

     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     Inside the silence of unmoving things,
     you let him kick you out because you thought
     he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
     how close I came to being so ensnared.
     I did not think such anguish possible.

The weather added what it could of gloom.
I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
He found the creature cowering in the cage,
a series of metallic strips that twined
behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
of malcontents announced a change of heart.
They just don’t mind my taking you along.

At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
for I deny that you can ever force
serious work of beating back the past.
The way of doing what is done and done
gives one a slightly different sense of time,
which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
secure enjoyment of their properties,
a cup’s inscrutable banality.

     to attract some unimaginable moth
     affinity between the omniscient voice
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     what is not known is not seen as unknown.
     When women and their children work at home,
     is such a project thinkable: delayed
     before he could respond, and even though
     a number is a number, true is true.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
     Her head became a solitary cloud.

They just don’t mind my taking you along.
The smallest women had the roundest legs
unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
the more one’s understanding of it grows.
I did not wish to live what was not life,
but this is only partly true. One could,
content to jelly through the night and meld,
fill in from left to right until the space
will not have read the texts that we have read.
The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

He gave his head one violent shake as though
. . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
because, though free, he was not formally
so close to me that I could feel his breath
behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
the white man’s Christianity—which asked
a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     But what about the fantasies she has!

     a series of metallic strips that twined
     her not with expectations but with doom.
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     There’d be no candy for the kids that day.
     How curious a land this is, – how full
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     to see the closing of that early grave.
     He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!

ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
had died before it filtered down to me.
“Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
But what about the fantasies she has!
Inside the silence of unmoving things,
the myth of intersexuality
is certainly suggested by the trees
while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.

That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
the bloated back of something long demised.
The smallest women had the roundest legs
of mind, because it is the death of death
and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
to use his Oriental residence
the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
smoking the cigarette of young despair
undoes his mission and my hope, once more.

     so close to me that I could feel his breath
          a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
          How curious a land this is, – how full
          you let him kick you out because you thought
          by men who cannot bear to think themselves
          off-white is just another word for gray.
               evidence of his sensuality
               where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
               the standard English of the living dead.
               Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.

     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.
     He found the creature cowering in the cage,
          a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
          I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
          so that compositors could use the same
          hidden by blatant circularity.
          He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
          but then he’d fallen into heresy,
          distinguishing the long-expected rap.
          He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.

He found the creature cowering in the cage,
     The kinship of this cognitive critique
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     for I deny that you can ever force
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
     The weather added what it could of gloom.
     At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     because I couldn’t find the food I liked.

     you let him kick you out because you thought
     off-white is just another word for gray.
     The windows of the neighborhood are shut.
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
     serious work of beating back the past.
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.

There’d be no candy for the kids that day.
I did not think such anguish possible.
I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
the myth of intersexuality
so that compositors could use the same
suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
He was a stationary traveler
before he could respond, and even though
he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.

     will not have read the texts that we have read.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
     The very concept of the body is
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     music, which in its very principle
     is certainly suggested by the trees
     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     hidden by blatant circularity.
     Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.

     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     the white man’s Christianity—which asked
     her not with expectations but with doom.
     The way of doing what is done and done
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
     evidence of his sensuality
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.

     because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
     content to jelly through the night and meld,
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     but this is only partly true. One could,
     because, though free, he was not formally
     to use his Oriental residence
     to find out if a woman really loves
     how close I came to being so ensnared.

     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     to attract some unimaginable moth
     behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
     That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
          fill in from left to right until the space
          affinity between the omniscient voice
          smoking the cigarette of young despair
          had died before it filtered down to me.
               the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.

The smallest women had the roundest legs
to see the closing of that early grave.
For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
When women and their children work at home,
what is not known is not seen as unknown.
But what about the fantasies she has!
     the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
          a cup’s inscrutable banality.
               the standard English of the living dead.
               Her head became a solitary cloud.

     her not with expectations but with doom.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
          while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
               the white man’s Christianity—which asked
               the bloated back of something long demised.
               I did not think such anguish possible.
                    where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
                    distinguishing the long-expected rap.
                    The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

The air was full of baseball scores and bad
evidence of his sensuality
and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
content to jelly through the night and meld,
a number is a number, true is true.
The programs we have built so far have been
a promise genuinely promising.
     a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
          the clear-cut armies of the purer air.

I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
distinguishing the long-expected rap.
     before he could respond, and even though
     what is not known is not seen as unknown.
     ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
     to find out if a woman really loves
     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
     serious work of beating back the past.
     There’d be no candy for the kids that day.

     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
     the standard English of the living dead.
     Her head became a solitary cloud.
          the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
          Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
               he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
               a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
                    to attract some unimaginable moth
                    a number is a number, true is true.

“Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     so that compositors could use the same
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
          how close I came to being so ensnared.
          Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
               the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
                    music, which in its very principle
                              a promise genuinely promising.

     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     the bloated back of something long demised.
          . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
          smoking the cigarette of young despair
          behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
          He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
          The weather added what it could of gloom.
          The way of doing what is done and done
          undoes his mission and my hope, once more.

I did not think such anguish possible.
And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
He was a stationary traveler
to see the closing of that early grave.
He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
a cup’s inscrutable banality.
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.

     the white man’s Christianity—which asked
     to use his Oriental residence
     because, though free, he was not formally
     hidden by blatant circularity.
     He gave his head one violent shake as though
     off-white is just another word for gray.
     He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
     At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.

     where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     a series of metallic strips that twined
     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     They just don’t mind my taking you along.
          but this is only partly true. One could,
          for I deny that you can ever force
          affinity between the omniscient voice
          For Lucy had her work cut out for her.

     serious work of beating back the past.
          is certainly suggested by the trees
          so close to me that I could feel his breath
          The kinship of this cognitive critique
          will not have read the texts that we have read.
               the myth of intersexuality
                    fill in from left to right until the space
                    had died before it filtered down to me.
                    How curious a land this is, – how full
                    of malcontents announced a change of heart.

The way of doing what is done and done
will not have read the texts that we have read.
The very concept of the body is
a promise genuinely promising.
I did not wish to live what was not life,
distinguishing the long-expected rap.
There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
Inside the silence of unmoving things,
how close I came to being so ensnared.

     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.
     When women and their children work at home,
     the myth of intersexuality
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
     content to jelly through the night and meld,
     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     the standard English of the living dead.

     How curious a land this is, – how full
         fill in from left to right until the space
             the more one’s understanding of it grows.
             He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
                 of malcontents announced a change of heart.
                     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
                     before he could respond, and even though
                         . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
                         his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
                         the bloated back of something long demised.

I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
a scene from some fantastic everglades,
but this is only partly true. One could,
unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     When women and their children work at home,
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     a series of metallic strips that twined
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.

     because, though free, he was not formally
     music, which in its very principle
     had died before it filtered down to me.
          while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
          Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
          Her head became a solitary cloud.
          At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
          texture, a darkness more redoubtable
          because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
          That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.

     evidence of his sensuality
     so close to me that I could feel his breath
     smoking the cigarette of young despair
     hidden by blatant circularity.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
          a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
          He was a stationary traveler
          and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
          the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
     nbsp;    what is not known is not seen as unknown.

     affinity between the omniscient voice
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     to find out if a woman really loves
     behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     The windows of the neighborhood are shut.
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
     a cup’s inscrutable banality.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.

     is certainly suggested by the trees
     so that compositors could use the same
          The weather added what it could of gloom.
          The air was full of baseball scores and bad
          But what about the fantasies she has!
          Inside the silence of unmoving things,
          a number is a number, true is true.
          ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
               The kinship of this cognitive critique
                    He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.

     off-white is just another word for gray.
     There’d be no candy for the kids that day.
     He gave his head one violent shake as though
          The very concept of the body is
          to attract some unimaginable moth
          by men who cannot bear to think themselves
               They just don’t mind my taking you along.
               Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
               you let him kick you out because you thought
               her not with expectations but with doom.

     to use his Oriental residence
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
          The smallest women had the roundest legs
               He found the creature cowering in the cage,
               for I deny that you can ever force
               suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
               He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
               I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
                    he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
                    to see the closing of that early grave.

The kinship of this cognitive critique
lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
The programs we have built so far have been
the letters of our alphabet, which are
a scene from some fantastic everglades,
suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.

     the more one’s understanding of it grows.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     a promise genuinely promising.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
          a series of metallic strips that twined
          his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
          distinguishing the long-expected rap.
               before he could respond, and even though
               I did not think such anguish possible.

He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
content to jelly through the night and meld,
because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
The smallest women had the roundest legs
and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
smoking the cigarette of young despair
where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
behind the darkness of the handkerchief.
He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.

     to find out if a woman really loves
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
     a number is a number, true is true.
     He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
     He was a stationary traveler
          ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
          so close to me that I could feel his breath
          you let him kick you out because you thought
          the standard English of the living dead.

     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
          fill in from left to right until the space
          gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
               the bloated back of something long demised.
               How curious a land this is, – how full
               he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
               music, which in its very principle
               undoes his mission and my hope, once more.

     the myth of intersexuality
     will not have read the texts that we have read.
     When women and their children work at home,
          The air was full of baseball scores and bad
          her not with expectations but with doom.
          The weather added what it could of gloom.
          Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
          a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
          There’d be no candy for the kids that day.
          Her head became a solitary cloud.

     a cup’s inscrutable banality.
     He gave his head one violent shake as though
     to attract some unimaginable moth
     because, though free, he was not formally
     the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
     But what about the fantasies she has!
          which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
          of mind, because it is the death of death
          hidden by blatant circularity.
          The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

     but this is only partly true. One could,
          That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
          The way of doing what is done and done
          so that compositors could use the same
          evidence of his sensuality
          is certainly suggested by the trees
          “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
          I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
          the letters of our alphabet, which are
          to see the closing of that early grave.

I did not wish to live what was not life,
affinity between the omniscient voice
     The very concept of the body is
          but then he’d fallen into heresy,
          for I deny that you can ever force
          how close I came to being so ensnared.
          I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
          while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
          He found the creature cowering in the cage,
          They just don’t mind my taking you along.

     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     When women and their children work at home,
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
     serious work of beating back the past.
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     affinity between the omniscient voice
     where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.

But what about the fantasies she has!
     to use his Oriental residence
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
     Inside the silence of unmoving things,
     off-white is just another word for gray.
          texture, a darkness more redoubtable
          had died before it filtered down to me.
          At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
          serious work of beating back the past.

     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     the standard English of the living dead.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
     ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
     before he could respond, and even though
     you let him kick you out because you thought
          That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
          I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
          to see the closing of that early grave.

     for I deny that you can ever force
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     The very concept of the body is
     music, which in its very principle
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     How curious a land this is, – how full
     affinity between the omniscient voice
     is certainly suggested by the trees
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.
     Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.

The windows of the neighborhood are shut.
Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
smoking the cigarette of young despair
while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
The kinship of this cognitive critique
so close to me that I could feel his breath
where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
will not have read the texts that we have read.

     how close I came to being so ensnared.
     He gave his head one violent shake as though
     the myth of intersexuality
     had died before it filtered down to me.
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     hidden by blatant circularity.
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here.”
          the bloated back of something long demised.
               a cup’s inscrutable banality.

Inside the silence of unmoving things,
fill in from left to right until the space
undoes his mission and my hope, once more.
The way of doing what is done and done
unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
content to jelly through the night and meld,
gives one a slightly different sense of time,
distinguishing the long-expected rap.
     a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!

     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     I did not think such anguish possible.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     the white man’s Christianity—which asked
     a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
          the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
               Her head became a solitary cloud.

     a promise genuinely promising.
     He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
     He was a stationary traveler
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     because, though free, he was not formally
     the white man’s Christianity—which asked
     evidence of his sensuality
     behind the darkness of the handkerchief.

     which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
          The weather added what it could of gloom.
               but this is only partly true. One could,
               because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
               At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
               a series of metallic strips that twined
               to attract some unimaginable moth
               of mind, because it is the death of death
                    There’d be no candy for the kids that day.

     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     serious work of beating back the past.
     He found the creature cowering in the cage,
          to use his Oriental residence
          He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
          texture, a darkness more redoubtable
               off-white is just another word for gray.
               For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
                    he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
                    her not with expectations but with doom.

     so that compositors could use the same
     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     a number is a number, true is true.
     They just don’t mind my taking you along.
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.

He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
you let him kick you out because you thought
before he could respond, and even though
the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
because, though free, he was not formally
a promise genuinely promising.
He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.

Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
Inside the silence of unmoving things,
a scene from some fantastic everglades,
a number is a number, true is true.
The very concept of the body is
the white man’s Christianity—which asked
to attract some unimaginable moth
suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
I stood there braaced and tense, lips tightly drawn
behind the darkness of the handkerchief.

     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     the myth of intersexuality
     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     fill in from left to right until the space
     off-white is just another word for gray.
     There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
     a series of metallic strips that twined
     to see the closing of that early grave.

     the standard English of the living dead.
     He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
     for I deny that you can ever force
     a cup’s inscrutable banality.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     distinguishing the long-expected rap.
          which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
          the bloated back of something long demised.
          There’d be no candy for the kids that day.

     while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
     How curious a land this is, – how full
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     but this is only partly true. One could,
     smoking the cigarette of young despair
     music, which in its very principle
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     And handsome is as handsome did it, too!
     The kinship of this cognitive critique
     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.

     his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
     what is not known is not seen as unknown.
     I did not think such anguish possible.
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     so that compositors could use the same
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.
     He was a stationary traveler
     so close to me that I could feel his breath
     had died before it filtered down to me.
     He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.

     hidden by blatant circularity.
          how close I came to being so ensnared.
          The way of doing what is done and done
          is certainly suggested by the trees
          to use his Oriental residence
          But what about the fantasies she has!
          He gave his head one violent shake as though
               That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.
               He found the creature cowering in the cage
               because I couldn’t find the food I liked.

     the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
     Her head became a solitary cloud.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
     At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
     evidence of his sensuality
          a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
          The smallest women had the roundest legs
          to find out if a woman really loves
          her not with expectations but with doom.
          The windows of the neighborhood are shut.

     and even snowflakes on an autumn day;
     secure enjoyment of their properties,
     what is not known is not seen as unknown.
     The weather added what it could of gloom.
     When women and their children work at home,
     Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
     will not have read the texts that we have read.
     The smallest women had the roundest legs
     to find out if a woman really loves
     a promise genuinely promising.

There was a harmless way to extract a brain,
his Buddhahood without a doubt. It was
a promise genuinely promising.
When women and their children work at home,
you let him kick you out because you thought
what is not known is not seen as unknown.
They just don’t mind my taking you along.
At that the girl rose straight up. Nora took
     ONE night when I had tasted bitterness
     behind the darkness of the handkerchief.

He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
He knew and practiced all the rules of art,
a series of metallic strips that twined
the white man’s Christianity—which asked
the clear-cut armies of the purer air.
He found the creature cowering in the cage,
a switchblade honed on concrete, thin as pain.
He gave his head one violent shake as though
what is not known is not seen as unknown.
And handsome is as handsome did it, too!

     the head of many tongues turns man to stone;
     for I deny that you can ever force
     the myth of intersexuality
     to find out if a woman really loves
     lashes. They came because they wished to learn.
     The air was full of baseball scores and bad
     the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.
     The programs we have built so far have been
     where feet in long tan shoes once pointed down
     her not with expectations but with doom.

     suffering with a heart-shaped cookie knife.
     I did not wish to live what was not life,
     but then he’d fallen into heresy,
     because I couldn’t find the food I liked.
     I say good twice. I don’t know why. I do
     fill in from left to right until the space
     and all the cooking for the whites and slaves
     gives one a slightly different sense of time,
     a scene from some fantastic everglades,
     a cup’s inscrutable banality.

Her head became a solitary cloud.
The smallest women had the roundest legs
to attract some unimaginable moth
which came when they bore fruit. Their stillness was
affinity between the omniscient voice
to see the closing of that early grave.
But what about the fantasies she has!
The kinship of this cognitive critique
smoking the cigarette of young despair
will not have read the texts that we have read.

     content to jelly through the night and meld,
     how close I came to being so ensnared.
     I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn
     so close to me that I could feel his breath
     hidden by blatant circularity.
     I did not think such anguish possible.
     The very concept of the body is
     a Barren Sign, it will produce no growth.
          off-white is just another word for gray.
               the standard English of the living dead.

     distinguishing the long-expected rap.
     Inside the silence of unmoving things,
     he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left
     the letters of our alphabet, which are
     evidence of his sensuality
     because, though free, he was not formally
     unseen in Seoul, an island of cement
     music, which in its very principle
     to use his Oriental residence
     undoes his mission and my hope, once more.

     the bloated back of something long demised.
     How curious a land this is, – how full
     the more one’s understanding of it grows.
     Darkness lay softly on the bare pine floor . . .
     the speckled surface of the soured swamp,
     so that compositors could use the same
     serious work of beating back the past.
     The way of doing what is done and done
     of malcontents announced a change of heart.
     That’s what I’m being paid for, after all.

     before he could respond, and even though
     by men who cannot bear to think themselves
     texture, a darkness more redoubtable
     is certainly suggested by the trees
     but this is only partly true. One could,
     while tides surged through its quivering tears of gills.
     He was a stationary traveler
     of mind, because it is the death of death
     . . . with slushed brains anything was possible . . .
     a number is a number, true is true.

     had died before it filtered down to me.
     For Lucy had her work cut out for her.
     The windows of the neighborhood are shut.
     They just don’t mind my taking you along.
     Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.
     He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.
     There’d be no candy for the kids that day.
     The weather added what it could of gloom.
     Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
     “Now, it’s complete because it’s ended here."